BUREAU 13: Judgment Night

Thank god there was a freezer full of barbecued ribs waiting in the cabin.

Congratulations for the catch were tossed about from the rest of my crew, and in a polite array of plonks, the lines hit the water again in a neatly staged series.

Once more, the war twixt man and fish commenced. We had been out on the lake for half the morning, doing it up royal, each of us grimly determined to have fun. Mindy was in the rear of the rowboat battling the fish for supremacy. Next to her, Raul Horta was experimenting with some goofball mail-order electric fish catcher. Damn things never worked, but still he tried. Balancing the front of the boat, Father Michael Xavier Donaher and I were just drinking beer, swapping lies and occasionally summoning fat trout to their deaths. Alone as usual, Jessica Taylor was in a skimpy bikini and practicing dives off a floating wood platform. In an even skimpier red speedo, Richard Anderson was lying on the beach working on his always perfect tan. Dressed in Army fatigues, George Renault was reclining in a lawn chair on the dock, happily field stripping his M60 machine gun. For George, that was as close to fun as he got. The man simply liked our line of work too damn much. He was also paranoid. But for someone in the Bureau, that was a very healthy attitude.

The yellow sun was shining in an azure sky dotted with puffy white clouds. Birds were twittering in the lush green forest lining the shore. The lake was smooth and clear. I kind of felt that we were living in a postcard. All in all, we were doing a fine job of forgetting Jimmy's death.

I shook my head and cast again, the line whizzing out to hit amid the weeds, sending a splash into the air. A month ago in Chicago, we had finally tracked down a mad scientist with a poor copy of Victor Von Frankenstein's medical journal he had downloaded off the Internet. Didn't sound like much, but the doc had joined forces with the local Nazi Party to pay for his experiments. Frankenstein Nazis. Lord, what a fight that had been. Ended with the downtown Chicago convention center in flames, the Sears Tower listing three degrees towards the lake, a helicopter chase above Lake Shore Drive and a multiple bazooka battle that left most of us wounded, the doc and journal burned to a crisp and Jimmy Winslow catching a shell right in the chest. We wanted to try a Resurrect, but there hadn't been enough of him to mop up with a sponge. Our section chief had ordered us on vacation and here we are. Having as good a time as possible after the recent death of a close friend.

Feeling something in my eye, I laid my rod aside and popped the top on a beer from the plastic cooler. I'd really miss the stupid little bastard. For an incubus, a sex vampire, Jimmy had been an okay guy. In salute, I took a healthy sip. Although, of course, I never would have let him date my kid sister.

Suddenly, a truly thunderous belch from Father Donaher shattered the peaceful silence of the lake. Heads turned, somebody laughed, and the big Irishman blushed crimson.

"Faith, I do apologize," he said, that fake brogue of his dripping shamrocks off every syllable. "I fear Mr. Alvarez's lunchtime offering was a wee bit spicier than my delicate constitution can handle."

Raul offered sympathy, Mindy offered a beer and I told the lot of them to blow it out their ears. I had made that Chicken Ranchero mild enough for a newborn baby to eat, but to hear these sissies talk, you'd think I laced the thing with napalm.